Entent
by Cyanide Lemons
Summary: They where alike, the boy and him. He might have been the only one to see it, but it was true.


**AN: **

**So I flipped a coin on whether or not this was going to be fluffy or angsty, and it landed on angst. It's terribly over dramatic, but oh well.**

**If you don't get what's going on, don't worry. Most of the time neither do I. This is a story about Team Fortress 2, so if you've never played it (Or seen meet the spy) than you'll be lost. I'm also taking artistic liberty on the tf2 universe. **

**/**

They thought he was stupid, and he supposed in some ways he was. He hadn't done well in school, or in basic training. He couldn't remember the last book he had ever read, if he had ever read one.

But despite all that he wasn't all that idiotic. Because out of all of them he was the only one that saw it, that realised it.

That knew who he was.

It was obvious if you thought about it properly, but people had a habit of being so very ignorant of things that didn't involve themselves. He supposed that he was one of the few, no, one of the only people that had that type of information.

He should probably feel honored that he hadn't been knifed in his sleep yet, but it was hard to feel anything but a burning anger towards the bastard. This wasn't all that different to how he normally acted towards him, but now he had more reason, more material to draw upon when imagining pushing him off a cliff. It wasn't all that difficult to act like he didn't know; it was a little too easy to fool them all. He had had practice in it, after all, and in the end, he was very much his father's child.

He even now had his name.

They had been given new designations when they signed up, generic, boring names designed specifically towards their roles. They were more like titles than actually names, and the whole group had devised different things to call each other, never their own, real names, but something similar, something familiar.

He didn't really like his, because it wasn't his. But it was the next best thing, because it was _**his**_. He got a vicious little smile whenever he flinched upon hearing it, in the night's where both teams called cease fire and they gathered 'round a barbeque in the middle. There was some satisfaction in knowing that he was able to steal even that small thing from him.

Jake; derived from Jacque, his new name.

Simple, not very impressive, but now his.

No longer belonging to the bastard smoking in the corner, no longer belonging to the paranoid spy who only thought about his next manipulations, and who he had to kill next.

It was a small victory, but all the better for it, because it was really the only thing he could do.

…

It was cliché, he supposed, a single man that had a one night stand only to find out about the child years later. But by that time he had had a job in Dubai and no resources or time to look for it. He hadn't known whether it was a boy or a girl, what's it's name was. Hadn't known what country the mother had settled in.

It was probably safer that way, he had thought, she wouldn't have wanted someone like him, and they would have interfered with his job anyways.

He couldn't get attached; it was too dangerous for either of them. So he had ignored the little voice in his head that told him he would regret it later and continued with whatever he was doing. Mostly seducing and killing for money.

But that didn't work out all that well and eventually he had found himself running from the both sides of the law. And yet it wasn't the police or the mafia that found him, but a recruiter of some company. He'd been sketchy and uninformative, and any other time he would have flat out refused. But he had been desperate, and he had signed up anyways.

Got his new name, his new outfit, his new persona.

Met his teammates, did basic training than settled himself in.

And then he had seen him.

On the other side of the fence was a figure lounging, arms over it's head and starring at the sky. Scuffed sneakers with baggy pants that disappeared into white socks, blue shirt, dog tags, head set and cap, baseball bat at his side.

He recognised him as an "enemy" scout. But that wasn't what caught his attention; it was the color of his hair, the structure of his jaw. His nose.

He looked so much like her.

His heart stopped for a second, before reality crashed back.

It didn't matter.

That life was over; he no longer was himself.

His name was Spy, was Claude, was even frog or bastard or sneak or ghost. He no longer had a right to the name Jacque. No right to that life.

It didn't matter.

…

He thought it was funny. No, he thought it was hilarious. They both thought the other didn't know, that they were the only ones to notice the similarity's, that they could hide their simmering feelings.

The spy was better at it of course, but even he had trouble hiding his reactions sometimes.

It was better than the TV dramas his sister used to watch sometimes, because this was real and had guns and blood.

He smirked at the scout as he walked past, and chuckled when he flinched. So very amusing.

He hadn't had this much fun in quite a while.

He flicked his cigarette case open and leaned back against the wall. It would be interesting to see where it went from here, whether in the end such family ties could be repaired after all the time. He was looking forward to the time that one of them has to face off against the other.

Whose blood would be spilt first.

/

**AN: **

…**.**

**Yea.**

**I understand that some people don't really see the same thing I do. *Coughspysscoutfathercough* But I'd like to think that I'm not totally out of this world quite yet.**


End file.
